


jabs

by robiland



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, post-sex, the bantz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8530795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robiland/pseuds/robiland
Summary: Given their respective affiliations, Tracer and Sombra's ideas of pillow talk are much more different than one would imagine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "btwn tracer and sombra i think widowmaker just attracts annoying zippy women and i think that's beautiful" - me on my own twitter account
> 
> i'm really proud of this?? i love the girls. mercy's only mentioned here, same with widowtracer, tracer's fucking both of them. i shitpost copious amounts of this pairing among others on my twitter acct @llesbianisme if you would like to join me in overwatch hell + please enjoy!!

"Do you trust me?"

 

Wide, chestnut irises scanned Sombra's expression, hoping to pick up on the usual smugness, the teasing. They fell short. The only sound between them after this was the low humming of the chronal accelerator, skipping in places, the light flickering, illuminating brown skin in short bursts.

 

"Right now, do you trust me?" Sombra repeated. Tracer flinched ever so slightly - force of habit - as she reached out to touch the device between them, separating them. Tracer ached for closeness with her. "Knowing what I could do to this? To you?"

 

Reality flickered back into Tracer's thoughts again, after her head swam with the escape, the pleasure Sombra had given her. She remembered where she was, who she was in relation to the woman with whom she shared a bed. Opposites. Rivals. Enemies.

 

"They could have me on a wire. Feeding me information." Sombra's hypothesizing prompted Tracer to scan her bare body again, remembered that Los Muertos technology ran in - no, technology  _was_ her blood. "If I was given the order to destroy this, destroy you..."

 

Sombra trailed off. As much as Tracer knew she wanted to throw her off, scare her, she couldn't help but laugh at the attempt. "Wire or not, when have you ever done what anyone told you to do?"

 

"You would be comforted if I just  _decided_ to destroy you?"

 

Tracer shrugged, her eye contact with Sombra even and unwavering. "Only means the sex was  _just_ shy of good enough."

 

"Of course. Anyhow, some orders are worth following. In my best interest, at least."

 

Tracer noted the solemn tone that Sombra's words took. Widowmaker crossed her mind - Amélie did, too, for a moment. Her certain flair, the finesse with which she carried out her missions, did not negate the fact that, at their very core, they were still missions ingrained in her mind as the pinnacle of importance. Though not of her own wrongdoing, besides being in the wrong place at the wrong tine, there was a lack of freedom in Widowmaker. The lack of freedom that Sombra filled as she acted on interest and seldom devotion.

 

At the end of the day, it pained Tracer that the two women who she so _badly_ wanted to free were still so trapped.

 

"Before Talon," Tracer began tenatively with her gaze still directed at Sombra. "You didn't answer to anyone unless it was on your terms, yeah? You can have that freedom. You--"

 

"Don't."

 

Tracer's brows furrowed.

 

"Don't try to sell Overwatch to me," Sombra warned, turning away from Tracer to begin to gather clothing into ungloved hands. Her back was to Tracer as she spoke. "As if there's anything new that I haven't seen in all your files, all your communications records, mierda, your poster child holovids _\--"_  


"Corrupt or not--"

 

"'Corrupt or not'? You hear yourself?" Sombra looked at Tracer over her shoulder, scoffing at her frustrated expression. She smirked. "Someone over there has to be fucking you good."

 

Tracer glared, instinctively gathering the sheets up to her chest, not sure if it was the nudity or the way Sombra poked at her defenses that made her feel exposed.. "They... they fixed me. They're the reason why I'm here."

 

"And the reason you disappeared to begin with. Let's see..."

 

Sombra slipped on her gloves for the sake of pulling up a number of screens - screens pertaining to Lena Oxton. She swiped this way and that, through copies of headshots and birth certificates and--

 

"How old were you when you joined, again? Twenty-one? Youngest ever. You must be very smart," Sombra commented, relishing in Tracer's discomfort. She pulled up a pyramid of three images - Winston's blueprints of the chronal accelerator, medical records, a picture of the wreckage of the Slipstream. " _Just_ old enough to sit at a bar and drink in some countries, and - poof! - you're a ghost!"

 

"Stop it," Tracer warned, unable to tear her eyes away from the images, no matter how quickly Sombra seemed to file through them.

 

Sombra pinched the copy of Tracer's medical records and spread her fingers, making note of the section with looping, bordering on illegible script. Angela Ziegler's handwriting. "I knew about the whole 'living ghost' thing, but I thought that was just colloquial. They call you that in your records, too. Did you know that?"

 

"Angie wouldn't--"

 

"'Observation conducted October 17th. Ghost girl.'" Sombra paused to glance at Tracer, then continued to read, "'Confinement ineffective. Patient describes memories of being a maid' - kinky - 'that may be linked to time travel, may also be classified as dreams. I fear she may becoming delusional.' How tragic." 

 

"What's all this for, then? What's your point?" Tracer forced herself to keep her voice even, ignore the depiction of hunks of misplaced steel, the assessment photos they'd managed to snap of her before she faded again.

 

Sombra collapsed the images in a great wave of her hands. "You act like you owe your life to these people - people with a gorilla and a cyborg sprinkled in there - as if they hadn't taken it from you to begin with. Traded your past, future, and present for a messy surgery and a hunk of scrap on your chest. As if you're on the outside of all of this. You're just as brainwashed as Widowmaker."

 

"They saved my life," Tracer said firmly. "What makes me any different from you scheming your way into a good for nothing gang? Having them cut you open to throw some wires in?"

 

As if she'd rehearsed her answer, Sombra sharply responded, "I made a choice."

 

"And I didn't?"

 

"Tell me, Oxton," Sombra regarded Tracer with cold, challenging eyes, tapping a knuckle against the chronal accelerator through the thin sheet that covered it. "Say the gorilla never managed to crank this thing out. Would they have given up? Kept you locked up like a zoo animal while Ziegler scratched her head? Said 'fuck it' and let you go back to the Stone Age?"

 

Tracer narrowed her eyes. "They would never--"

 

"And that's the difference between you and I. You can't even  _conceptualize_ fending for yourself. You know someone's gonna hold your hand. I didn't have that option. Either change or be changed." Once Sombra decided that Tracer had been sufficiently silenced, she withdrew, removing her gloves again and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Ponder that, poster child."

 

Poking at Tracer's defenses again. It made her squirm.

 

Tracer's eyes scanned Sombra's spine - more specifically, the cybernetic graft that lined the middle of her back. She timed her reaching out to run her fingertips along the neon glow perfectly with Sombra preparing to pull a grey turtleneck over her head. She wondered how Sombra hid it - if she cared to at all.

 

"We're not so different," Tracer decided. "You 'n' me."

 

Sombra hoped Tracer didn't sense the tremor that ran through her body at the touch; however, judging by the pair of lips that pressed against her shoulder, Sombra would say that Tracer was more perceptive than she let on.

 

"You and  _I,_ " Sombra corrected. "Aren't you English?"

 

Tracer's lips curved into a smile. She let the sheet that covered her fall away, leaning forward just enough to allow her to slide her fingertips along Sombra's lower stomach. "You know what they say about English girls..."

 

"Enlighten me," Sombra droned.

 

"I don't know - I was hoping you could help me figure something out," Tracer purred.

 

Sombra rolled her eyes, but placed a hand over Tracer's, guiding her fingers a little closer between her thighs. "Then you can't use whatever stupid pickup line you're thinking of on me."

 

Tracer moved her lips up to Sombra's neck, feeling her lover shiver at the contact of the chronal accelerator's cool metal on her back and the familiar contact of Tracer's knowledgable fingers between still slick folds. "I don't think I'll need to. I _trust_ that you're gonna want me inside you--"

 

"Whatever."

 

"And I _trust_ that I'll bruise your ego by making you scream for me--"

 

"As if."

 

"And I _trust_ that you're gonna wanna make up for it by showing me who's boss," Tracer finished, amused that Sombra didn't argue with this particular sentiment. Tracer listened for her low, satisfied hum as she worked her, fingers moving slowly to reacquaint Sombra with her touch. 

 

"You didn't answer my question," Sombra breathed as she felt Tracer nip at her neck, following up the bite with her lips and tongue. "Do you trust me, Oxton?"

 

Tracer hummed in thought, grinning as she let her fingers slip just the _tiniest_  bit further; Sombra opened up for her, just as Tracer knew she would. "Not as much as I trust how predictable you are."

 

 

 


End file.
